


just to hear your voice

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, British Men of Letters, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Imprisonment, M/M, Mild Blood, Post 12x10, Prayer, Reunions, Self-Inflicted Injury, Threats of torture, deancas-sweetheart, this sounds darker than it really is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: Captured by the British Men of Letters and cut off from his Grace, Castiel assumes that it won't be long before Sam and Dean arrive to rescue him. But as the days pass with no sign of the Winchesters, he begins to realize that he will have to be the one to secure his own freedom, with his love for Dean to guide him home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr speculation and synopses for upcoming episodes. 
> 
> A note on the tags: they make this sound a lot darker than it really is, but I felt you should be given a heads-up for anything potentially upsetting. There is no actual torture in this story, only the vague threat of it, and self-inflicted injury is not, in this case, quite the same thing as self-harm.

They come for Castiel on a Wednesday.

He and Sam and Dean have just arrived back at the bunker after finishing up a nasty vampire case in Nebraska. When they walk into the library, Castiel is surprised to see Mary sitting there, curled up in one of the more comfortable chairs with a book open on her lap and a cup of tea beside her.

“Mom?” Dean says the way he does every time he sees her, like he still can’t quite believe that she’s here with them. He walks over and pulls her up into a hug. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Mary says soothingly. Sam joins them and she gives him a quick hug as well. She spares a nod for Castiel, who hovers in the doorway, feeling more than a little out of place. “I was in the area, figured I would drop by.”

Something isn’t right. Castiel can tell by the tightness around Mary’s eyes, the way her gaze keeps darting off to the side like she’s waiting for something to happen.

“Mary,” he says, approaching her with caution. “That’s not true.”

“I told you he still had some of his powers,” a smooth voice says from behind him. “Not a wasted effort after all.”

Sam and Dean have their guns drawn before Castiel has even fully turned to face to speaker. He knows that voice, that accent. Mick.

“We’re not done here yet,” another voice adds. Mr. Ketch. What on earth are they doing here? 

“What the hell do you want?” Dean’s voice is cold. “And how the hell did you get in?”

The silence is tense, both Sam and Dean keeping their weapons trained on the British Men of Letters, ready to fire in an instant. After a minute passes, Mr. Ketch raises an eyebrow. “Well, if no one else is going to answer the boy, I will. We have the lovely Mary to thank for welcoming us into your home.”

Castiel sees the slump in Dean’s shoulders even as he holds his gun steady. His head turns slightly, just enough to look at his mother. Castiel glances at her as well, and he immediately knows it’s true. There’s a striking mixture of guilt and regret on her face.

“Boys, put your guns down,” she says. She holds her head high, and Castiel almost admires her for it, the same steel in her that she passed down to her sons. “They’re just here for the books.”

“A library raid?” Sam scoffs. “I thought you were supposed to have the advantage over us in that department. What do you need our stuff for?”

Castiel watches the intruders warily. They’re still looking at him the way they have every time they’ve encountered one another, with a combination of interest and hunger that makes him incredibly uncomfortable. 

He slowly lets his blade drop from his sleeve. “I believe,” he says quietly, “that was a ruse designed to gain entry here. Their actual purpose…”

“Clever angel,” Mick says, with a smile that doesn’t suit the conversation at all. 

Dean fires, but before the bullet can bury itself in Mick’s chest, he raises a glowing hand and swats it away like an annoying insect. Sam swears under his breath. Their weapons are useless.

“Mom.” The anguish in Dean’s voice is clear. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”

Mary has gone pale. “I swear, Dean,” she says. “I didn’t know. They said they wanted the books, I thought they could help, finish the monsters once and all.”

“Not her fault, really.” Mr. Ketch winks at her. “We can be very convincing.”

“Well, you’re not convincing me to let you walk out of here with Cas,” Dean says grimly. “You’ve been keeping an eye on us for years, right? So you know how this is gonna go down.”

“Of course we do. We’re going to get exactly what we came here for.” Mick looks at Mr. Ketch and nods.

Mr. Ketch raises his hand so that the bloody sigil carved into his palm is visible, and this time it’s Sam who fires at him, but it’s too late. Ketch turns and presses his hand to the wall beside him. There’s a flash of bright light, and the last thing Castiel hears is Dean’s voice calling out his name.

***

He wakes in an unfamiliar room, dizzy and aching. His blade is gone, and when he forces his eyes open and looks down at himself, he realizes his coat is as well. He’s crumpled on a couch that’s too short for him, but at least, he supposes, he’s not chained.

Castiel manages to stand, examining his surroundings through eyes that can’t quite seem to focus. The room is small but comfortable, plush leather armchairs and walls lined with bookshelves. It almost looks like it could be a room in the bunker, right down to the fact that it has no windows. He finds his coat draped over one of the chairs, but doesn’t put it back on. 

It’s strange that he’s been left alone. There’s a heavy wooden door along the far wall, and it’s locked just as he expected. He raises a hand and calls upon his Grace, hoping he might be able to blast through it, but something’s wrong. He can feel his Grace inside himself, but he can’t reach it.

Frowning, Castiel presses a hand to his chest and notes that one of the buttons on his shirt is askew. He undoes the rest quickly, and hisses in dismay when he sees the Enochian sigil painted on his skin in some kind of unfamiliar ink. It’s powerful warding, explaining why he can’t reach his own Grace. For all intents and purposes, he is human.

That explains why no one is in the room watching him. He examines the walls more closely, and soon finds the security camera mounted in the corner. If he pushed the couch over and stood on top of it, he could probably smash it, but whoever is watching would have enough notice to burst in and stop him. Instead, he simply stares into it, willing his face to remain composed. He will not give them the satisfaction of tears or rage or any other display of emotion.

There’s a light knock on the door, and Castiel turns to face it, surprised. What kind of captor knocks before entering the cell of their captive, even a cell as comfortable as this one? 

Mr. Ketch nods politely at him as he enters, then smoothly draws his gun and points it at Castiel. Considering how his other angelic abilities appear to be dampened, he can only assume that his power to heal is no longer with him. The gun, for once, can hurt him. 

Mick walks in next, and appears strangely pleased to see Castiel awake and upright. “How are you feeling?” he asks sincerely.

Castiel eyes him coldly. Mick’s interest in his well-being in far more likely born of academic curiosity than of any actual empathy towards him. “I imagine you know the answer to that,” he says levelly. “The warding on my chest. It’s not only powerful, but precise. You know exactly how I feel, because you guaranteed that I would feel this way.”

Mick grins. “Sharp and sassy as always, Castiel.” He snaps his fingers as he advances into the room and drops into one of the armchairs. He gestures for Castiel to do the same, but he shakes his head in refusal. 

Mr. Ketch makes a _tsking_ sound from where he leans against the wall, still with his gun trained on Castiel. “We’re wasting our time with politeness. He’s human now, or near enough. Vulnerable.” There’s an unpleasant twist to his mouth as he says that last word, and Castiel knows what he’s implying: that there are other, more painful ways to get information out of Castiel.

Mick, however, dismisses him with a lazy flap of his hand. “Enough. Castiel and I are going to talk like civilized people.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Castiel informs him, “and you are far from civilized, despite the luxuriousness of your prison.”

Mick shrugs. “Fair enough. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. That’s why we brought you here, really. For our comfort, not for yours.”

His honesty is surprising. Castiel is quiet, considering how best to handle this situation.

Unlike him, however, Mick doesn’t seem to recognize the advantages of a strategic silence. “Let me tell you how this is going to go. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not going to starve you. You’re far too valuable for any of that rough treatment. And eventually, you will talk. Maybe not even to me. Maybe to my successor. But you will.”

“If you say so.” Castiel walks back to the bookshelf and looks it over, his back turned on Mick. He hears Mr. Ketch make another sound of annoyance, but Mick just chuckles. 

“Very well. Enjoy your first day, Castiel.” The two men leave, the door shutting soundly behind them, and Castiel exhales shakily. It was a bold move, exposing his back like that, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Mick was telling the truth when he called Castiel valuable. The British Men of Letters may know about angels from their lore books, but they’ve never spoken to one before Castiel. A primary source is always to be treasured, especially one this rare.

He has little concern for his own safety. He only hopes that Sam and Dean are alive and unharmed. He thinks they are, considering that Mr. Ketch and Mick likely transported themselves here along with Castiel when they activated that sigil back in the bunker. Their only mission was to retrieve him, not to harm the Winchesters.

Winchesters. All of them, including Mary. Castiel doesn’t truly believe that she knew what she was doing when she allowed Mick and Mr. Ketch into the bunker. She may have pointed a gun at him on their first meeting, and been rather unsympathetic towards him at times since then, but he doesn’t think she would have done this to him knowingly. 

He does wonder how Sam and Dean will react to her betrayal. He hopes it doesn’t cause too much strain on their already tenuous relationship, for all of their sakes. 

He also wonders how long it will take them to rescue him. Not long, he hopes.

***

After a week, Castiel is starting to feel a bit better about his own inability to rescue the Winchester brothers when they were imprisoned not so long ago. All that time, he thought it was his own shortcomings that prevented him from finding them. But if Sam and Dean-- Sam and Dean _Winchester_ \-- can’t find him now, perhaps he ought to be a little easier on himself. They are the best hunters in the world, he knows this. If they can’t find him, the British Men of Letters must be quite accomplished in their own right. This whole rescue business is not an easy one.

Mick and Mr. Ketch visit every day, as promised. Mr. Ketch stands guard and glowers while Mick chatters away, and Castiel responds only when absolutely necessary. Mick doesn’t seem fazed by his silences, and as promised, no physical harm comes to Castiel. The couch is not the most comfortable place to sleep, but there’s a small washroom attached to his main room, and he’s fed twice a day. 

He supposes it could be worse. 

“Not bored yet?” Mick asks on the eighth day. “I noticed you’ve been enjoying the books we’ve provided for you. If there’s anything in particular you’d like to read up on, let us know. We have quite the collection.”

“I’d like to see your works on Enochian sigils,” Castiel replies. “Particularly the ones that contain the banishing mark you used to bring me here, and the one you used to prevent me from accessing my Grace.”

Mick is startled for a second, perhaps more by the fact that Castiel replied at all than by what he said. Then he smiles. “Clever, clever. But no. I’m afraid you don’t have permission to access those. Very few people do.”

Castiel shrugs, feigning lack of concern. “In that case, I’d appreciate some fiction.”

“Fiction it is.” Mick rises from his seat and heads for the door. “I’ve heard of an excellent series about fallen angels.”

Castiel ignores his parting shot. Mick is pretending just as much as he is. Beneath his patient facade, he wants to be the one to crack Castiel. He craves the glory, the recognition. Castiel doesn’t need his Grace to sense the hunger in him. 

But if he can pretend to be patient, Castiel can pretend to be confident. To be calm and composed. He plays the part of the celestial being that the British Men of Letters expect, intellectual and aloof. Even before they carved this sigil into his chest, though, that wasn’t the case, hadn’t been for years. 

He’s lived in the Winchesters’ orbit for so long now, he no longer has the luxury of angelic detachment. He curses like a human, drinks coffee like a human, consumes popular media like a human.

_Loves_ like a human. 

Angels aren’t supposed to be capable of love. Not real love, anyways. His reunion with Ishim only proved how easily angels could be overwhelmed by their interactions with humans, but that wasn’t love that Ishim felt for Lily Sunder. 

The love that Castiel feels for Dean is another matter entirely. It influences him, but it does not define him. It directs him, but it does not control him. It is an inspiration rather than a limitation. 

It’s one of the few things keeping Castiel from losing all hope. He trusts both Sam and Dean to find him, and yet he knows that the relief he’ll feel when he sees their faces again will be of two different types. Equal, but different. 

After all, it’s only Dean he’s been praying to on these long and lonely nights.

Realistically, Castiel knows that Dean can’t hear him. He has no ability to walk in the dreams of others like he once did, and with the sigil on his chest, he cannot even hear prayers directed at him. It’s likely that Sam and Dean are frantically calling for him through prayer, hoping to reach him, but he cannot hear them.

He directs his own prayers to Dean instead. Every night before he goes to sleep, and on occasion throughout the day. It centers him, lends shape to his days. 

He always begins the same way. _Hello, Dean._ After that, it varies: sometimes he recounts his day, whatever he passed the time reading or thinking about. Sometimes, in his more thoughtful moments, he reflects on their relationship, the way it’s developed over the years. And in the deepest parts of the night when he lies awake tossing and turning, he admits how he wants it to develop further in the years ahead. 

Castiel has no reason to believe in God anymore, at least not the way he used to. But he still believes in Dean. He imagines he always will.

***

By the middle of the second week of his imprisonment, Castiel decides it’s time he at least attempts to get himself out of this mess. He’s accustomed to relying on his Grace, and without it, he doesn’t know what he can accomplish. But he needs to try.

The sigil on his chest doesn’t wash away when he showers, and he can’t seem to scratch it off either. There are no sharp objects in the room that he could attempt to use to break it-- but then it occurs to him. He wonders why it took him this long to think of it.

There are no scissors or knives or razors in the room, but there are books. And books can be weapons, not only the words on their pages but in this case, the pages themselves.

He’s careful as he makes his preparations. The security camera still blinks at him from the corner of the room, and he knows all his movements are being observed. So he goes through the same motions he does every single day and waits for Mick and Mr. Ketch to arrive.

They are beginning to show some strain as well, he notes dispassionately when they enter the room. Mr. Ketch’s mouth is tighter than usual, and his eyes are colder. Mick’s smiles are less frequent and more forced. 

The door locks from the outside, Castiel knows, so it’s always unlocked when his visitors are in the room with him. They clearly trust that Castiel won’t attempt physical combat while Mr. Ketch threatens him with his gun and his unerring accuracy. Up until this point, they’ve been correct.

“How are you today, Castiel?” Mick asks. 

Castiel looks at him steadily, and then allows himself to smile. It seems to surprise Mick, who is unused to any display of emotion from him. But before he can speak again, Castiel slams his bloody palm to his own chest and murmurs an Enochian incantation under his breath. There’s a sound like a bomb going off, and when he opens his eyes, both Mr. Ketch and Mick are slumped on the floor, unconscious. 

Castiel allows himself a moment to exhale, near-giddy with relief that his plan worked. The tiny papercuts all over his left hand were small enough to go unnoticed on the security camera, but provided him with enough blood to draw the sigil on his own palm. After studying the warding on his own chest, he understood that it didn’t force him to become human, but only cut off access to his Grace, which was still present inside him. And so he could use angelic magic against his captors without it having any effect on him. 

He carefully walks around Mick’s crumpled body and into the washroom to wash the blood off his hands. Then he picks up his trench coat from the back of the chair, and with his head held high, Castiel leaves his cell.

The rest of the house is furnished in much the same way as the room he has lived in for the past week and a half. He finds the exit easily enough, and no one comes after him. Mick and Mr. Ketch must have been the only two trusted to watch over him. That’s reassuring. 

After raiding the kitchen for food that he can carry with him, he finds a thick jacket in the hall closet and puts it on over his own clothes. It looks foolish, but he’ll be susceptible to the weather once he leaves the house, and he won’t risk his health and safety now that he’s so close to freedom.

A piece of mail on the table in the foyer catches his eye, and he picks it up, examining the address. Manchester, Missouri. That must be where he is. He’s slightly surprised that he wasn’t taken across the ocean to the headquarters of the British Men of Letters, but perhaps that’s why they chose not to do so. Anyone looking for him would assume he had been taken back to Britain, and would never expect to find him only one state away from the Bunker.

Well, at least it will be easier to make his way back from here.

He opens the door and breathes in the fresh air for the first time in eleven days. It’s a beautiful day, cold and crisp and sunny. Castiel pauses for a second, looking back at the house, and that’s when he hears it: the rumbling noise of an approaching car.

And not just any car. He would know that sound anywhere.

What a strange coincidence, he thinks to himself, sinking down to sit on the porch step. That the Winchesters should arrive just as he’s managed to free himself. He’s proud of that. He rescued himself, after all. But he will appreciate the ride.

The Impala skids to a halt in front of the house, and before Castiel can rise to greet them, Sam and Dean are out of the car. “Cas?” Dean calls out, and Castiel has never been so happy to hear his voice. 

Sam reaches him first and leans down to embrace him roughly. “Good to see you all in one piece, man,” he says. 

“Happy to see you as well, Sam,” Castiel replies. 

Dean’s still staring at him like he can’t quite believe that he’s here. Like this is all too easy. He clears his throat nervously and moves towards Castiel, then stops.

Sam gestures to the house, the door still hanging open. “Anything to take care of inside?” he asks grimly.

Castiel shakes his head. “They’re unconscious, but the spell will last a few more hours.”

“I’ll tie them up, just to buy us some more time.” Sam squeezes Castiel’s shoulder again and enters the house, leaving him alone with Dean.

Dean approaches him cautiously, lowering himself to sit beside him on the step. “Are you okay?” he asks tentatively, his eyes roaming over Castiel’s face and body, searching for obvious signs of injury. 

“They didn’t hurt me,” Castiel assures him. He pushes aside his layers to show Dean the sigil on his chest. “I can’t access my Grace, but other than that, I was treated well enough.”

“Well enough?” Dean repeats skeptically. “Still. We never should have let this happen--”

Castiel cuts him off. “It’s not your fault.” Greatly daring, he lays his hand over Dean’s where it rests between them. “You’re here now.”

Dean exhales shakily. “I’m so sorry, Cas,” he murmurs. “So sorry it took us this long to get to you.” He looks down at their hands, then lifts his eyes back to Castiel’s face like he’s searching for an answer there. 

He must find one, because he leans forward, his intention clear. But Castiel draws back before the kiss can land on his lips, and as he does, a flash of hurt crosses Dean’s features. He grips Dean’s face before he can pull away completely, worried that he’s ruined this moment.

“Just...not like this,” he says softly. He silently begs Dean to understand. He’s tired, and he’s not himself, and he doesn’t want their first kiss to be here in this place where he’s been held captive for days. 

Dean sighs, a little sadly, and strokes a thumb over Cas’ cheekbone. “Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you home.”

He helps Castiel to his feet, and then guides him into the backseat of the Impala, but instead of leaving him there, Dean slides in beside him. Castiel looks at him in surprise, but Dean just shrugs. “You think I’m gonna let you out of my sight for a minute?”

Castiel feels a faint flush rising in his cheeks. He should have known Dean would be like this: tender, protective. He has been for years. He’s just being more honest, more verbal about it now. 

Sam comes back a minute later, and takes the keys from Dean without comment. The Impala rumbles to life beneath them, and they soon put the house and its occupants behind them.

“How did you find me?” Castiel asks after a few moments. He’s been wondering about it since he saw the car coming towards him. 

Dean grimaces. “Crowley,” he says shortly.

“We convinced him to get the few demons still loyal to him to spy for us,” Sam explains. “There aren’t many of them, and they were spread pretty thin, so that’s why it took so long. They finally got a glimpse of Mick yesterday, and managed to trace him back to the house.”

He’ll have to thank Crowley for that eventually. It’s an unpleasant thought-- Crowley is generally unpleasant-- but he does have his uses. 

“Looks like you were doing pretty well yourself,” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “But this is much better than having to hitchhike back to Kansas.”

Both Winchesters chuckle lightly at that. Dean reaches out and wraps his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “Sleep,” he suggests softly. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and you must be exhausted.”

Castiel burrows deeper into Dean’s chest and nods. He can already feel himself drifting off, the adrenaline from his escape finally fading, leaving only tiredness behind. He falls asleep with the sound of Sam and Dean’s quiet conversation in his ears, secure in Dean’s arms.

***

It takes them a few days, but they eventually find a reference to the sigil painted on Castiel’s chest in one of the books in the Bunker’s library. He spends a lot of that time sleeping or watching documentaries on Netflix. Dean hovers protectively, but gives Castiel his space. They’re tentative with one another, but not unsure.

Mary visits once, and Sam and Dean are stiff with her until after her conversation with Castiel, during which she apologizes and insists that she had no idea the British Men of Letters sought to take him prisoner. He tells her that he believes her, and that he forgives her, because he doesn’t wish to carry any resentment in his heart. She leaves not long afterwards, but Sam and Dean allow her to embrace them on her way out the door, following Castiel’s lead. If he can forgive her, then so can they. 

Once Castiel’s chest has been painted with holy oil and set alight, the warding sigil melts away. He hisses at the pain, but it’s bearable, because when it’s done, his Grace takes over and heals him almost immediately. 

“All better?” Sam asks.

Castiel closes his eyes and feels his Grace singing inside him. “Yes,” he says simply. 

That night, after Sam has gone to bed, Castiel catches Dean on his way back to the library from the kitchen, and gently removes the beer from his hand, setting it aside. Dean starts to protest, but stops when Castiel lays a gentle finger against his lips. Dean sucks in a breath, startled, but his hands rise to hold Castiel by the hips, soft and steady. 

This time, they move towards each other in unison. Their lips meet, and it feels like the inevitable conclusion of all their interactions to this point. Dean deepens the kiss, pulling Castiel closer against his body, and Castiel matches his intensity, gripping Dean by the shoulder-- the same shoulder that bore his handprint all those years ago.

After a few minutes of this, Dean draws back and just looks at Castiel, his eyes tender. “I missed you so much,” he admits. “I prayed to you, but I guess you couldn’t hear me with that thing on your chest.”

Castiel can’t help but smile. “No,” he says. “But, Dean-- I prayed to you too.”

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle up at that, and Castiel will treasure this moment for the rest of his long existence. “Let’s not get ourselves into another situation where we need to be praying to talk to each other, okay?” Dean says.

“Okay,” Castiel agrees. 

If they can manage that, then they can handle anything else the world throws their way.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the DeanCas Hey Sweetheart Challenge 2017. Cheerful, right??? Title from Call Me by Serena Ryder. 
> 
> Thank you to Anna for reading this over for me, as always, and for being the best co-mod a girl could ask for. 
> 
> Be sure to check out the other entries for this challenge, there's plenty of great stuff there.


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